Do You Hear What I Hear?
by Eve Hawke
Summary: King Alistair and Queen Lyra find a way to bring some holiday cheer to Denerim's Alienage, with the help of one Zevran Arainai. Set in the Lyraverse, written as a one-shot for Christmas 2012. Happy Holidays, my friends! :-)


_A/N: So many of my awesome friends published today, and I wanted to get in on the fun! So, here is my own small contribution to the Christmas Season. This comes late for some, I know, but aside from being busy with family and such today, I had no inspiration for writing - no idea what to write about! And then I heard the song "Do You Hear What I Hear?" come on the radio. Suddenly, this small storyline popped into my head, and I snuck away after dinner to write. I hope you enjoy. :-D_

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**First Day, 9:31 Dragon  
****Castle Denerim**

Lyra sat back in her chair, feeling tired from the stresses of the day. The gown Isolde had gifted her with was _heavy_ - who'd have thought minuscule glass beads could carry such weight? Her hair had grown a bit, now touching her shoulder blades, and Leliana had piled it high upon her head, adorning it with more beaded clusters and crowning it with the tiara stolen from the dragon's hoard near Haven. The hairstyle was beautiful, but the weight of the stones and the addition of seventy-eight hairpins had a headache pounding between her ears. Attempting to mask her discomfort, she smiled at Isolde across the way, and pressed her hands into the small of her aching back.

The baby wasn't due for another few months, but their little heir was making his or her presence felt. Though most of the time she felt healthy enough, after a day like today and an outfit like this one, she was more than ready to retreat to their room and let the twenty pounds of garment puddle to the floor.

At her side, Alistair caught her eye as he sipped from a silver-chased goblet. "Doing alright?" he murmured.

"Eh," she replied. "They seem to be enjoying, no?"

"I think we're a success," he replied. "Feasting, dancing - certainly the fanciest party _I've_ ever been to. Where in Thedas did Isolde find that juggler?"

"I think she said he came from the Free Marches."

Alistair's attention was captured by a minor freeholder who wanted to discuss something trivial sounding - but no doubt, it was _very_ important to the speaker, and Alistair gave the man his full attention, nodding and _mm-hmm_ing with appropriate seriousness. The bann's wife caught Lyra's eye, and Lyra plastered another smile on her tired cheeks, certain she looked like a wooden doll. She'd done more smiling and nodding today than any sane person should be required to.

First Day was a time for celebrations of all kinds. Traditionally, the town gathered in the square for merrymaking, but a bad blizzard had driven everyone indoors the previous day, and so Lyra had suggested they host a gathering in the castle's main hall. Once Isolde had gotten wind of the party, it had become a circus in almost no time - she'd whipped the servants into a frenzy, and what Lyra had intended to be a friendly, casual gathering had become a uppity, black-tie event. Just _how_ Isolde could arrange a twelve-course dinner in less than twenty-four hours was still something of a puzzle to the young queen.

But it_ was_ fun. Sort of, anyway. As Alistair had said, certainly fancy. Before dinner, there had been music and formal dancing, and servants circulating the room with dainty trays of delicacies and glasses of sparkling wine. The women glittered, each determined to outdo every other female on the floor. Same old games, different day - politics, politics, politics. Boring, boring, boring.

Lyra curved her back in the chair, grimacing a bit at the pain that came from sitting still too long. Alistair remained trapped in his conversation with the bann, and she quirked a tiny smile when he threw her a desperate look. She was on the verge of claiming the privileges of a pregnant queen and wishing everyone goodnight when the enormous doors blew open, and Zevran Arainai strode into the hall, followed closely by the dwarf Oghren and the mage Anders.

A swirl of snowflakes followed them through the door, a blast of chill and the smell of winter filling the air as they tromped through the hall. Quiet murmuring and a few gasps of disapproval met their entrance, but the trio ignored the nobility, crossing the room toward the head table as cloaks swirled from their shoulders, dripping snow and ice. Lyra sat up, interested. She'd invited them, but the males had only laughed, claiming they had no interest in a royal party, and that if they could manage it, they'd sneak Alistair out from under her nose. If this was their idea of "sneaking"...

"King Alistair," Zevran called, his sizzling accent rising above the congenial conversation in the hall. "I come on behalf of your neighbors in the Alienage."

A shocked silence settled over Denerim's nobility, the gentry clamming up in the face of this elf who would dare to barge into their private party. Lyra stifled a giggle, enjoying the spectacle Zevran created and the shocked looks some of the matrons were exchanging with Arlessa Isolde.

"Did you know, my liege," Zevran continued, blithely ignoring those who glared at him, "that there are families in the Alienage without food, on this First Day of 9:31?" Zevran gave them no time to respond, but continued, his words echoing over the hall. "I have just come from there, you see. Whole families with young children, huddled into their rooms, their hands going blue as they try to keep themselves warm. I thought perhaps you might take some of your dinner to these people, seeing as you have so much, and they so little."

If a pin had dropped in the middle of the great hall, all and sundry would have heard it, clear as crystal. The looks on the faces of the gathered highborn ran the gamut from outraged to delighted, comical to heartbroken. At Zevran's back, Anders flashed her a roguish grin, and Oghren leered, chortling into the silence, his eyes glued to her chest. Lyra rolled her eyes at him, adjusting the neckline of her gown up an inch.

"How can we refuse?" Alistair answered, then turned to his queen, a twinkle in his eye. "My dear, would you consent to-"

"Gather the dishes," she instructed, rising from her chair. "Let's _all_ go. There's no reason we can't continue our celebration in the Alienage. That is..." her glance swept from eye to eye, daring them to listen. "If no one minds?"

A flurry of agreement met with her suggestion, and an amused smile tickled Lyra's lips. There were perks to being the queen, and forcing charity upon those who might be least likely to give it was one of her favorites.

An hour later, Denerim's nobility mingled around the ancestral Venedhal tree, bundled warmly into cloaks and hats and gloves. There had been hesitation at first, from humans and elves alike, neither group sure of whether what was happening was socially acceptable, or something they even desired. But Alistair and Lyra had greeted Shianni and Valendrian in friendship, and at the risk of displeasing their ruler, the gentry had followed suit. Snow had been cleared away, Alistair leading a group of enthusiastic young men with shovels, laughing at the cold. Communal fires had been built, humans and elves alike gathering around to share the warmth, and simple tables set up, groaning under the weight of the dinner Isolde had arranged for. Lyra rather enjoyed the arlessa's frantic expression as she watched the elves dig into the fancy hams and turkeys, dishes of greens, wheels of cheese and loaves of bread.

Now, it even appeared that everyone was enjoying themselves. Isolde's six-piece instrumental group had been coaxed into playing something more lively than dinner music, and food and wine were flowing. It had become a regular festival. Lyra had rid herself of the hated gown, exchanging it for worn linen and wool, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. A hand-made hat and scarf completed her ensemble - Wynne's gift to her. With Alistair's arm around her, she cupped a steaming mug of tea, their noses red from cold as they sipped and talked. Leliana and Wynne reclined on a bench nearby, a gaggle of children at their feet, the bard telling a First Day legend to the tune of her lute. Maker only knew where their boys had gone, though Lyra was willing to bet they were at the center of the excitement that seemed to be happening a few hundred yards away. A dance competition, she thought she'd heard.

"This is what we needed," Lyra observed, watching as Arl Eamon chatted with Elder Valendrian. "Now that they see, maybe the prejudices will begin to end."

"I hope so." Alistair slipped a hand from his glove, then urged her cloak open to lay his hand on her rounded belly. Lyra smiled at him, then leaned in to claim his lips with hers in a quick kiss. Sighing, she leaned her head on his shoulder, then thought of something.

"Did you and Zevran plan this?" she asked, turning to Alistair.

His eyes widened. "What? Me, try and get out of a party?"

She cocked a brow at him, clear skepticism written on her face.

He chuckled. "Would you hate me if I said yes?"

"No, I'd probably hate you if you _liked_ parties like that," she giggled. "I think it's brilliant. In fact, I smell a new First Day tradition." Slanting in to lock his lips with hers once more, Lyra let her eyes drift closed. This time next year, they would have a babe of their own, and if that child could be born into a world better than the one they'd been born into, Lyra would consider her work well done. As Alistair liked to say, if they couldn't try and change things for the better, then what was the point of ruling?


End file.
